


Positions

by Irekyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, Johnlock Fluff, Kinda, M/M, Mindless Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:50:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1379740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irekyn/pseuds/Irekyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds Sherlock hanging all over the furniture in a variety of uncomfortable or awkward positions. His attempts at intervening only make his growing attraction to his flatmate stronger. Sherlock’s reactions to the whole ordeal aren’t helping matters, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Couch

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is my first finished work. I was sitting on my kitchen counter and later sprawled over the arm of my couch and I just kinda went, "hey wait a second, this seems like something Sherlock would do." So it's just a random plot bunny. It's pretty much solid fluff, a bit cracky, but isn't that the best kind? Okay, it's a bit cliche, but I digress.  
> My friend TakagiRin encouraged me to finish this and was my inspiration to keep writing (it's hard and I'm lazy). You're awesome, girl!  
> Anyway, enjoy!

John opened his eyes a fraction, squinting against the morning sun as his pupils adjusted. He stretched, letting out a moan he’d later deny, and smiled to himself.

 _Saturday,_ he remembered. No clinic work, and he and Sherlock had just solved a case the day before. It was rare they’d get another one so soon.

A stress-free day, finally. It'd been weeks.

John wandered down the stairs and into the kitchen and started to make his morning tea when a shifting sound caught his attention. He looked up into the living room and raised an eyebrow at the sight.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock had sprawled over the couch, completely upside-down. His legs rested straight up against the wall and his head tilted back over the front of the seat, his nose level with the coffee table. He spread his arms across the seat of the couch.

“Bored.”

“No, I mean why are you lying like that?” _If that's even considered lying_ , John pondered, pouring the hot tea into a cup and exiting the kitchen. He strolled over to the couch.

“Like I said, bored,” Sherlock drawled, his words coming out in shortened breaths from the strain on his lungs. Gravity had caused blood to flush Sherlock's face, making it a darker shade of pink than what was flattering.

“How long have you been lying there?”

“Not sure. Maybe five minutes?”

John moved one of Sherlock’s arms, throwing it over the detective’s stomach and sitting in the empty space. “You’ll give yourself a headache if you keep that up.”

“Good.”

“ _How is that good!?_ ” John exclaimed. He leaned forward and set his tea down with a light _click_ on the coffee table. “That will only make you more miserable,” he added, leaning back into the couch.

Sherlock tilted his head up to look at John, some of the color receding from his face. “Pain helps me think, John.” He plopped his head back down, as if keeping his head up was too taxing. Sherlock flopped his arm back to it’s previous position with a huff, his fingers resting against the side of John’s knee.

“You won’t be saying that when you get up and all the blood rushes out of your head,” John informed. He tried not to squirm at the fingers tickling the side of his knee, attempting to ignore the warmth spreading from them. This was not the time to think about his recently growing attraction to his flatmate. This was time for tea. He picked his cup back up off the table.

Sherlock continued to stroke John’s knee, a casual, light brush of fingers against fabric. He appeared to be unaware he was doing it, staring upside-down at the edge of the table. John did his best to ignore the tingling that spread through him from the light taps of Sherlock’s digits on his knee cap.

In an instant the movement stopped. John looked down as Sherlock twisted around and stood up. He lost his balance and flopped back onto the couch, upright and pressed up against John. John only just managed to hold his tea out of the way before the sudden intrusion had taken place. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, his body a heavy weight leaning against John’s side. John tensed against the unexpected heat. Sherlock’s head settled itself in John’s shoulder, dark curls brushing the right side of his face. John felt his heart rate quicken and struggled to stamp it down. Sherlock took a few deep breaths, opening his eyes again and attempting to stand up once more. He wobbled a bit, recovering within a few seconds. The detective shambled into his bedroom, clutching his head in his hands.

John sat frozen on the couch, willing his breaths to slow down. He took a bigger sip of his tea than he intended, the liquid trickling hot down his throat. His right side still tingled where Sherlock has pressed against him. John almost wished he was still there, cuddled against his side and, for once, showing some affection. John shook his head to clear it. _That’s never going to happen, he doesn’t do things like that._ He finished his tea in bitter silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the first chapter! There will be more. I have it all written, but I plan on only uploading one chapter a day, because I'm evil and I can. I have the power. You cannot stop me.  
> Comments would be awesome, as this is, again, my first major gift to the fandom and I want to make sure I'm doing things right.


	2. The Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The table is usually meant for food, Sherlock. Not you.

John huffed up the stairs, grocery bags hanging from both arms. _I hope there’s room in the refrigerator for all this_ , he mused, opening the door into the flat. He stopped dead in front of the table.

Sherlock was lying across their table, only clear of toxic chemicals because John had put them away or tossed them out the day before. He was on the narrower part of it, bent over backwards, his legs dangling over the far side and his upper torso and head facing the door. His eyes flicked to John, peering at him upside-down. He grinned a bit, and John thought it looked rather sinister from the angle he was at.

“Hello, John,” his voice sounded strained.

John blinked at him. He shook his head and moved to set the bags down next to Sherlock. “That can’t be comfortable. Why are you even doing that?”

“I was leaning against the edge and decided to lie back and see what happened,” he wheezed out.

“And what’s your conclusion?”

“Not the most pleasant position I’ve been in,” he grimaced.

John smirked. “Doesn’t look like it,” he set the cold gallon of milk on Sherlock’s stomach, right where his shirt had ridden up and exposed his skin. He delighted in the _hmph_ and shiver the man let slip.

“Not helping, John,” Sherlock hissed, fingernails tapping on the hard surface of the table. He squirmed around a bit as if to get rid of the cold.

“Then just get off the table!”

Sherlock reddened, turning his face away, “I can’t.”

“ _You’re stuck!?_ ”

“...Yes,” he grumbled.

“The great Sherlock Holmes, defeated by a table and a lack of abdominals,” John teased. He grabbed the milk off of Sherlock and put it in the fridge. Sherlock rubbed a hand over the offending spot, warming up the pale skin there.

“Don’t be stupid, it was only because I would have slid off backwards and broken my neck if I tried.”

John gave him a smug look, “No, you’ve already tried and you failed. You don’t have any decent muscle here,” he placed his hand on Sherlock’s stomach. The detective jumped in surprise and let out an annoyed huff, “and you just don’t want to admit it.”

“Just help me up,” Sherlock growled, the force of his articulation making the muscle tense under John’s hand, the smooth skin brushing against his callused palm. John grinned even more as Sherlock squirmed under his hand.

“You know, I think I might just leave you here,” John quipped, starting to turn away and remove his hand. Sherlock seized his wrist, clenching his hand around it in a vice-like grip.

“ _John!_ ”

“I’m kidding, Sherlock!” John exclaimed, moving in front of Sherlock, to the side of the legs dangling helplessly over the edge of the table. He turned his hand around to grab Sherlock’s wrist, and clutched Sherlock’s other hand in his own. “Alright, up you go,” He pulled and braced his feet under himself.

Sherlock huffed and made a failed attempt at suppressing a whine as he sat up. He slid off the table and slumped almost completely against John as his feet made contact with the floor.

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock, how long were you lying like that?!” He took a step back to keep from falling. Sherlock pressed almost completely against his front. His forehead dropped onto John’s shoulder, and he huffed in discomfort.

“An hour at most…” Sherlock breathed into John’s shoulder.

“Oh my God, Sherlock, doesn’t your back hurt!?”

“... _Yes_ ,” he griped, putting his hands on John’s shoulders and pushing himself off of him. “It will probably bruise in the area where the edge of the table was.” He straightened and removed his hands from John, grabbing the edge of the table. He arched his back in the opposite direction. It popped and cracked multiple times before he let out a loud groan, unaware of the effect it had on John.

The noise went straight south, and John turned away from his flatmate, embarrassed. “Well, you, um, recover. I just need to,” he paused, “do something.” He saw Sherlock give him an unreadable look before turning away and heading for the stairs to his room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *singing triumphantly* I'm glad you guys like this story! Tis a pleasure to upload this chapter.  
> Oh, my singing is annoying my brother. He just told me to shut up. No, you shut up, brother, I'm the cool one who writes fanfiction. I'm going to become a broadway star and you can't stop me. *swishes cape* Zane out!


	3. The Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John half-hoped Sherlock would cease to contort himself over the furniture. He was wrong.

It was a week before John saw anything weird again. Sherlock had been rubbing at the sore spot his escapade with the table had caused, wincing when he did so. John noticed, informing Sherlock that he may have over-extended the spaces between his vertebrae. Sherlock had assured him that he, despite his lanky appearance, was quite flexible. His actions the following days had told a different story, but John didn't bring it up again.

He half expected Sherlock not to contort himself all over the flat anymore, but it was an uphill battle when it came to his flatmate.

John entered the flat after a long day at the clinic (he’d dealt with 3 rather bad cases of STIs). He headed into the kitchen, planning on making himself some semblance of a meal with the food he'd bought the previous week.

He looked for his flatmate, huffing when he found him in his chair. Sherlock's knees were on the seat, and he had bent over the back of the chair, facing the back, and let his arms hang over his head. His phone was on the floor in front of him.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?" Sherlock mumbled into the back of his chair.

"Why?" He asked, flipping a hand up in exasperation.

John could see Sherlock's back expand as he took a breath, "I dropped my phone."

"And?"

"I couldn't reach it."

"So you just decided to hang there, then?" John speculated.

"Excellent deduction, John."

"You know, at this rate, you're going to completely throw out your back, " John added, making his way over to Sherlock.  He sat on the floor beside Sherlock's head, legs criss-crossing each other. Sherlock turned his head to look at him.

"Don't be an idiot, John, I'm still young yet. Worry about my back when I'm fifty," He forced out, breath coming in short gasps and his face flushed red again. John had to look away. he knew there was nothing inherently sexual about this situation but his brain had other ideas.

"You won't have a back by the time you're fifty," John muttered.

Sherlock sighed, adding a grumble to the end of it, “I’ll be dead before then, anyway. Killed by some serial killer or, " he paused, "something.” He lifted his knees, trying to get his feet under him to push himself back up off the chair. He lost contact with the seat of chair and slid forward head first. He threw his arms out to brace himself up on the floor.

“John?” He breathed, arms braced against the carpet and legs up in the air, his stomach still in contact with the top of the chair.

John sniggered at him. Sherlock glared at him, his arms starting to shake from the weight of his own body. His face and neck had reddened more from the pressure.

"Don’t patronize- _AH!_ "

“ _Oof!_ ” John had a lap-full of dark-haired energy before he even had time to react and fell on his back. Sherlock had slipped and fallen off the chair, landing square into John’s arms. “ _Sherlock!”_

“Sorry,” Sherlock apologized, shifting around on John to look down at him. John froze, realizing that Sherlock had him pinned beneath his tall frame. Sherlock's face was only a few inches above his own, held up only by the muscles in Sherlock’s neck.  He stared into Sherlock’s eyes and his breath hitched a fraction. He shifted a bit. “I-, um,” Sherlock hesitated before pulling back and rolling off of John, “seem to have lost my balance.”

Sherlock looked away from John, getting up in a rush and hurrying towards his room. The color hadn't receded from his face yet. He was already in the kitchen before John recovered.

“Sherlock!” said detective froze mid-stride, keeping his back turned to John. “Stop climbing all over the bloody furniture. You'll break your neck.” Sherlock turned around to give him a slight smile.

“Oh, please, John, you know I’m indestructible,” he teased, turning back around and strolling the rest of the way to his room. John elicited a deep sigh.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's chapter 3! Obviously things are heating up a bit. Poor John, he never knew what hit him. Slow down a bit, Sherlock. Jeez.


	4. The Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You told me to stay off the furniture."

Mrs. Hudson gave John permission to use her kettle, making him promise to keep it away from Sherlock. She smiled at him as he left her flat, making John promise to return the kettle after his morning cuppa. Their own kettle had an orange stain on the inside from God-knows-what from one of Sherlock’s experiments. He'd used the kettle without John’s permission and then tried to hide it from him after the vile deed. As a last minute resort, John asked their landlady if he could borrow hers for the morning.

He bid her good morning before trudging back up the stairs to their own flat, kettle in hand. He filled it under the tap, setting it on the stove and turning the burner on. John had gotten used to the electric kettle he and Sherlock had, but going back to traditional wasn’t a difficult feat. The only problem was the annoying hissing sound he’d sometimes hear if a drop of water on the kettle happened to hit the hot stovetop. For instance, right now.

He left the hissing kettle in the kitchen, wandering into the living room to find his flatmate.

“Sherlock? Where did- ACK!” John tripped over and landed on something soft. It was Sherlock, laying face-down on the floor. “What the hell, Sherlock?” John hissed, too bruised to bother moving off of his flatmate. So what if he was crushing him? Let the bastard suffer. He dropped his head between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Sherlock didn’t stiffen or protest.

“You told me to stay off the furniture,” Sherlock huffed into the carpet, out of breath after John’s fall on him. He didn’t try to shift out from underneath John. John felt the muscles shift under his head as Sherlock moved his arms to a more comfortable and less squashed position. Sherlock relaxed again.

 _What am I doing?_ “That doesn’t mean plank on the rug and become a hazard,” John replied. He resisted the urge to nuzzle himself into Sherlock’s back. _Jesus, I’ve got it bad. No denying it, now. Not gay, my arse._ He let out a single chuckle at his thought, hoping Sherlock didn’t notice and start using his freaky mind-reading power.

“What?” Sherlock asked, miffed about missing some joke and not even bothering to hide his disapproval. The edge of John’s mouth quirked up.

“Nothing, just,” John closed his eyes, “thinking.”

“Really? Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Shut up, you tart,” John teased, both of them falling into comfortable silence. John felt himself shift a fraction every time Sherlock took a breath. He hummed in contentment, feeling Sherlock’s body heat spreading through the front of his shirt. He inhaled a scent that was Sherlock's own unique spice and a hint of soap from his morning shower. It was glorious. He shifted a bit to better accommodate his injured shoulder and felt Sherlock's sharp inhale.

“John-,” Sherlock started, a hint of a blush dusting his cheeks. _No, not a blush, just red from me crushing him_ , John told himself.

“Yes?”

“I- my leg is falling asleep,” he admitted, his tone hesitant.

“Oh, right,” John felt a bit guilty as he climbed off of Sherlock. His chest cooled at the change and he crossed his arms over it. Sherlock hoisted himself up and stood placid, giving John another one of those odd looks. John swallowed under that smart gaze. _What have I done? What was I thinking?_

The kettle whistled and the tension dissipated. John furrowed his brow. The water should have boiled faster than that. Maybe he hadn’t been draping himself over Sherlock for as long as he thought he had.

He turned and strode into the kitchen, taking the kettle off the burner and pouring the hot water into the cup he’d already prepared. He had felt particularly lazy today and had made his tea with a bag instead of loose tea. He turned off the burner, noting that the kettle still had quite a bit of water left in it. He turned around to ask Sherlock is he wanted tea as well.

The room was empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! It's 2:30 in the morning here so I don't want to say too much or I'll say something I'll regret.


	5. The Couch (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What am I to you, John?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, guys! The last chapter. This is where this story ends.

Over the last few days, John had noticed Sherlock lost in thought. He actively avoided John to the point where he’d go out for a walk almost every time John came home from the clinic. John knew exactly what Sherlock was avoiding. He didn’t bring it up, even in the short, terse conversations they shared once or twice a day.

It was a Saturday again, which allowed John to sleep in and take a leisurely shower. He’d only recently started relaxing under the water on days he wasn’t in a hurry. It was a military habit that he was hard pressed to break. He’d brought his weekend clothes in with him and dressed before leaving the bathroom. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, planning to make a sandwich. It was too late in the day to make any sort of breakfast.

Sherlock was sitting on the counter, feet dangling off the ground. His hands braced him on the edge of the counter and his head had tilted back. His eyes were closed in thought.

“What are you doing?” John asked, stopping to look at his flatmate. The only response he received was an exaggerated exhale. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes and stalked over to the refrigerator, pulling out a package of sandwich meat.

He realized Sherlock was in his way when he turned to reach for the bread. “Sherlock, could you move, please.” He was ignored. “Sherlock, you’re blocking the bread cabinet and I’m trying to make a sandwich. Bread is, believe it or not, necessary to make a sandwich.”

Sherlock’s only response to John’s snark was to look at him. He narrowed his eyes as if he was trying to figure out the complexity of John’s face.

“Sherlock, move.” John huffed. Sherlock continued to stare at him. John resisted the urge to look away in defeat, though he was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable.

Annoyed, John grabbed Sherlock by the hips and attempted to scoot him over. He only succeeded in off-balancing his flatmate, who grabbed his shoulder to keep from toppling over. Sherlock scowled at John, removing his hand and jumping off the counter with whatever shred of dignity he had left. He stalked over to the couch and flopped dramatically back over the arm of it. His toes just barely touched the floor and his shirt rode up once again.

 _What’s up his arse today?_ John wondered. He stood, unmoving, in the kitchen for a moment, contemplating. He turned and followed Sherlock to the couch, his sandwich forgotten. He sat on the edge of the coffee table and looked at Sherlock, who from his current position, was staring up at the ceiling.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” He asked, phrasing it in such a way that it sounded more like a command than a question. Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling.

“Nothing,” he said, tapping his fingers against his side in agitation. John’s eyes tracked the movement for a brief moment before he responded.

“Bullocks. Is this about what happened,” he paused, taking a breath, “the other day?”

Sherlock doesn’t make any kind of affirmation or denial. John assumed that he was correct.

 _Fuck it._ “Sherlock, we need to talk about this,” he added, folding his hands together in his lap. Sherlock turned his head to look at John.

“What am I to you, John?”

“Sorry, what?”

“What am I to you?”

“No, I heard what you said, it’s just-,” John wrung his hands together and looked down at them. He took a deep breath. “You’re my best friend. You’re...the only person I don’t have to censor myself around, the only person I can count on to...not be a disappointment- no that’s stupid…,” He trailed off, shaking his head and looking down at his hands again. _At least I didn’t mention anything else._ John silently hoped Sherlock couldn’t read his thoughts at the moment.

He looked up at Sherlock, and was surprised to see him wearing a vulnerable expression. Sherlock hid it quickly when John made eye contact with him. He stared at John for a few moments.

John cleared his throat, “Your turn, then.”

“Hm?”

“What am I to you? It’s your turn.” Sherlock was slightly taken aback by the turn of conversation. He looked at John for a moment longer before replying.

“I don’t know.”

“What?” John leaned forward on the coffee table, toward the detective. “You don’t know?”

Sherlock shifted his head to stare upside-down up at John. “Not particularly,” he breathed, fighting the corner of his mouth from quirking up.

John opened his mouth to respond before he lost the balance he had, falling forward. In a moment of panic, he caught himself with a hand on Sherlock’s stomach.

Sherlock’s eyes blew wide and he unleashed an undignified squawk. His hand flew up to cover his mouth, horrified.

 _Oh my God, he’s ticklish,_ John realized. He grinned and starting tickling Sherlock’s sides with both hands.

Sherlock jerked back, letting loose a series of high-pitched giggles. He tried to remove John’s hands from his abdomen, without much success.

“ _John!_ ” He forced out between shrieks of laughter, “ _S-stop!_ ” His squirming moved him backwards across the couch. John unconsciously leaned forward to follow him. He delighted in the previously unheard-of laughter his flatmate was expelling.

He continued to tickle Sherlock, even as he fell forward onto him and started to laugh as well. He felt the taller man squirm beneath him and shake with mirth. He stopped and looked up at Sherlock’s face.

He was still beaming down at John, even though John’s hands had left his sides and both men’s laughter had ceased. They stared at each other in silence, an unspoken tension heavy between them.

John closed the distance between them, pressing his lips lightly, almost not at all, to Sherlock’s. He felt his heart stutter and he pulled back abruptly. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t know what-.”

“Shut _up_ , John,” Sherlock hissed, cupping John’s face in his hands and pressing his lips up against John’s. He was harder and more fervent in his efforts than John had been. It didn't take long for John to melt into the kiss, and he couldn’t help the smile that spread against Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock broke the kiss for only a moment, “ _That’s_ what you are to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you go! The end! I had a blast writing this and I hope you guys enjoyed reading it. Comments are always awesome, especially concerning areas I could improve upon in my writing. *makes finger guns* you guys are awesome.


End file.
